


Pawns to Players

by AntigravityDevice



Category: Plunkett and Macleane (1999)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntigravityDevice/pseuds/AntigravityDevice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleeing to America means Plunkett, Macleane and Lady Rebecca must all change their tactics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pawns to Players

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joylee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joylee/gifts).



"What you need to understand about America," said Plunkett as they were looking for a suitable place to hide for the night, their boots taking in water, the hem of Lady Rebecca's skirts seeping sludge, "is that everything over there is new. New money, new ideas. New beginnings."

He felt a pang as he said so, and snapped his mouth shut, suddenly remembering the last time he had said those words. Sailing to America was a dream he had first sold to Mary, and now he had to buy it back himself. He clamped down and held onto it, but it tasted bitter on his tongue. He patted the secret pocket - he had many - that held his ticket. _I'll swallow_ , he thought, _I'll swallow the past, and begin life anew_.

"New game, then," Macleane said, and earned a sharp glare. "What? Oh, you don't think a gentleman such as myself is going to chop wood on the frontier for a living? Plunkett, we need money even to buy a hatchet."

 _And whose fault is that_ , Plunkett wanted to spit out, because they would be on a ship already, pockets full of coin and ready to begin life anew, if it weren't for his harebrained fellow highwayman. Lady Rebecca picked up her steps, walking past them both and drawing their gazes. Plunkett felt chastised. All right, he had to admit that he had had a hand in making Macleane the highwayman that he was. Give an impressionable lad a taste of ill-gained wealth and he develops a thirst for it. Plunkett had needed that thirst. He couldn't very well cast him aside now that the ship was leaving in the morning. And there was Lady Rebecca to consider. What would his Mary have thought of him if they had left her behind to suffer the consequences?

"He's right, Mr. Plunkett," Lady Rebecca said, calm and serene. You could almost hear the calculations going on inside her head, wheels whirring and what-you-have-its clicking into place, if you leant close. Not that Plunkett would. He left the leaning to Macleane. "We need a new game."

"We?" Macleane asked, then repeated, "we," no longer asking.

"Did I not tell you I'm paying my own way?" Lady Rebecca indicated the softly lit stone building on the other side of the rain-drenched street. Her swan-like neck was pointedly bare. The ticket had cost her the necklace Macleane had almost been hanged with. "No one will think to look for us here."

 _Bugger me if they'll ever even let me in_ , Plunkett thought, staring up at the fancy guest house. He felt uncomfortable even standing there looking at it.

"We pay for a week's lodging in advance, and no one will think to look for us when we leave for the ship."

"With whose coin?" Macleane exclaimed, but his eyes were shining in a hopeful fashion.

She lifted the hem of her sombre dark dress. Between the layers of her skirts, she had jewels and necklaces and earrings on a string, each one suiting her, each one stripped of cheap metal and fake stones. Plunkett had to raise an appreciative eyebrow. Macleane cleared his throat and swatted him like he was in some kind of position to teach Plunkett about how to treat womenfolk.

Well, with the ladies of high standing, he might have a few more tricks up his sleeve. Plunkett trusted in common sense, not in cheap tricks. It may have got him burnt in the past, but at least his conscience was clean and his John Thomas untouched by the pox.

"You need money to make money," Lady Rebecca said, to Plunkett, which clearly irked Macleane. "Don't you agree?"

Plunkett made an agreeable sort of noise, and thumped Macleane, boldly strolling ahead towards the doors. "Better watch out, or I'm going to partner up with her and leave your sorry arse behind. Between the two of you, she's the one with the brains. Plenty of work down there for an honest apothecary, without your fancy words and walks of the season."

"Not for one without the money to set up a nice little shop," Macleane pointed out. There was sense in his words, to be sure; Plunkett had to admit that when Macleane set his mind to it, he could talk like someone who didn't have Spanish lace and fruitcake between his ears. "Besides, Plunkett, haven't you forgotten something?"

Plunkett turned around, half-sneering as he did so, expecting him to say something about how Lady Rebecca and Macleane were two hearts bound together and could never be parted.

"We have a gentleman's agreement," Macleane said instead, dead serious like only a man who had been saved when he was already dancing the Tyburn jig could be. His coat was ripped, its rich blue colour dulled, and his hair stuck up without a hint of a powdered wig, but in that moment, he looked more gentlemanly than ever before.

Plunkett wanted them to rent one room, to save money, and Macleane wanted them to rent two, with obvious intentions, but Lady Rebecca pointed out that they might as well rent the whole apartment, and that was what they ended up doing, since she was the one paying. Plunkett took the plush sofa near the fireplace, leaving the bedrooms for the other two. He felt rather like a chaperone and a bodyguard both as he set his guns down, close at hand. The thought gave him an idea, and he fell asleep hatching it.

As soon as he did, Lady Rebecca tiptoed to the other room, without a candle, her bare feet silent and swift.

***

It took them seventy days to reach Philadelphia, and by that time, they had several plans ready to be put into action. There were several New Worlders on the ship, heading home with their cargo, and they were all too happy to talk after a drink or two. Since there were no idle lordlings in Philadelphia to speak of, and hardly any old money in display at all, financial matters concentrated on trade. To Rebecca, it seemed rather vibrant and interesting, the way everything hinged on opportunity and freedom. She burnt with questions, but knew that she was the card better kept in the sleeve, so she had Macleane ask them instead with his silver tongue and kept to her tiny cabin.

The long voyage over the sea was spent largely in that cabin. She suffered the silence and the abominable conditions and the terrible food, focusing on their destination. Her two highwaymen were out of their element, but Macleane could always find distraction after befriending a chatty rum merchant and consequently his friends. Plunkett, on the other hand, walked up and down the deck like a caged wolf, and when she realised they could both use the distraction, she invited him in to play cards with her. He knew more card games than her, but he didn't know chess, and once Rebecca found out just how much knowledge of alchemy he had, he agreed to teach her over long, ponderous games of chess that continued well into the night.

At times she felt like she had been dream-walking for so long, waiting for the dawn so she could at last wake up and start living her own life.

One night, a month into their journey, Macleane came knocking, waking her up. His breath smelled sweet and strong, his coat like lilacs. His grin would've melted New Year's ice.

Rebecca drew her night shirt closed and sat up straight on the narrow cot. "The tradesmen serve excellent liqueur, then," she said. "Blackcurrant, is it? A pity I could not sample it myself."

He flipped his hat away, sitting down next to her. "I'd say staying here and giving the dinner a miss shows how very wise you are, my lady. It was rather primitive fare, to be honest. And these American gents are very uncouth in their manners. I wouldn't have wanted you at their mercy."

She drew her lips into a tight line. "Understand this. I stay out of sight for the good of the game that begins once we reach Philadelphia. I don't stay here for you. I don't sit here, waiting for you to come at your convenience, and I certainly don't belong to you. I'm done with being the piece tossed about the board. This time, I'm the one playing."

He seemed perplexed, but he didn't have a quip to counter her words, and she softened, reaching out for her tobacco. Macleane looked rather boyish when he was attempting to think, really think, bless his heart, and he looked almost bashful when Rebecca threw the covers aside and nudged him with her bare foot.

"Share a pipeful with me, and tell me all that you heard about the sugar trade."

"All this elaborate planning is giving me indigestion," Macleane complained, but the look he gave her was laden with anticipation. Their shoulders bumped cosily together as he lit her pipe.

"We must set the board before we can lose ourselves in the excitement of the game," Rebecca pointed out, and handed him the pipe.

"Hah. I'm looking forward to the exciting part."

Rebecca leaned closer, far too ladylike to point out that his hand was now resting on her thigh, underneath the thin night shirt. His neck and face didn't smell like lilacs, just the arms of his coat. Good. "So am I," she whispered, and they shared a grin through the smoke.

***

"What was the name again?" Plunkett made a face, hunching his shoulders and squirming like wearing a new, clean coat gave him hives.

"Austice. Shady fellow, favours his left leg. And Matthew Elsegood's right hand man, there's a certain poetry to it, isn't there?" Macleane checked his own sleeves, wiped off an imaginary bit of dirt. If he must show up in this drab, brown thing, he might as well make sure it was spotless. Besides, cleanliness fit his role as Lord Eichen, a chaperone of royals, familiar with more courts than these colonial tossers could name.

Hopefully. It had cost quite a bit, and taken some elaborate sweet talk in all the right places, to gain an invitation to the Board of Trade Hallowe'en party. They better make the most of it.

Rebecca adjusted the tiny, lace-swathed hat on her head. It was the latest of fashions, as Macleane had overheard, and it suited the dark colours of her dress. It gave the illusion of modesty, until a closer look betrayed the richness of the fabric, the sensuous way it embraced the curves and lines of her body. He knew that landscape mostly by touch, as she preferred the dark, but it was a fine way to learn her, and he had come to think that learning her was a journey he never wanted to end. It confused him, even irritated him sometimes, but then she showed with a little smile that he had a similar effect on her, and it soothed him. If he was bewitched, she was under the spell with him.

But there would be no such shows of affection tonight, as long as they stuck to their plan.

"Have you been practising your accent?" Rebecca asked Plunkett in a low voice as they made their way towards the doors.

"Don't plan on speaking much," Plunkett said with a shrug. "I'll pocket the agreements and be gone before anyone cares to test my bloody accent, if all goes according to plan."

She drew her lips into a line. Macleane knew what that meant by now, but they had caught the attention of the fellow at the door, and he nudged Plunkett to walk a step behind them as he cleared his throat.

"A good evening to you," he said, doing his best Prussia-by-way-of-Canton. "May I present her royal highness, crown princess Rebeka of Vanadia."

Rebecca lifted her pretty chin, and gave a haughty smile. Up until then, she had been Lady Rebecca Gibson in a stark, outlandish dress. The twist of her lips transformed her into a princess, and Macleane had to remind himself to introduce her highness' loyal bodyguard Hubert, and himself of course.

The role of a sombre chaperone and right hand man of a foreign royal wasn't much fun, and Macleane borrowed several mannerisms from his clergyman father. The result was that not many members of the Board of Trade sought his company, which suited their plans; he was here to eavesdrop while Rebecca drew all the attention to her.

He downed a glass of mediocre sherry, and glanced at her. Compared with England, the difference in the party attendants was staggering; instead of tired, bloated old men losing money that they had no use for, these traders consisted mostly of young, enthusiastic entrepreneurs, eager to make their names and fortunes, and the acquaintances of intriguing new people in town.

"Vanadia," ventured a young, bright-eyed fellow who had been discussing trade in the West Indies a few moments earlier, "Pardon me, your highness, but I don't believe I've heard of it. Somewhere near Istria, is it?"

"Yes," Rebecca said, curtly, choosing to take the words as an offence. Then she sipped her wine, and - was that a flirtatious smile she threw to the fellow with sandy hair and wisp of a moustache?

Was she having a bit of fun, playing the young bucks against one another? Didn't she realise this was work, and they were here to get their hands on trading papers, not flirt, and drink, and gamble, and...

Macleane bit his cheek, the hypocrisy of his thoughts burning him, and was almost too distracted to notice that the man with the West Indies connections approached the chairman of the board with intent in his steps. He didn't have to hear their words to know what their conversation was about. Soon, Elsegood would call for his faithful Austice, who would bring up the much discussed agreements.

Unless something had happened, and Elsegood had managed to lose those priceless documents by entrusting them to a man everyone knew was a Catholic, and a villain at that. One need only look at his scarred appearance. But the one with the most to lose was Elsegood himself. The balance would be tipped, and in the flurry, the Board would be a hive of opportunity to people willing to play the game.

What else were foreign royals to do, while they waited for their husband to join them?

Macleane slipped to the window, and lifted the candle three times, to signal to Plunkett, who was hopefully outside by now. Then he did his best to frown disapprovingly, and marched over to Rebecca, who was giggling, blushed and having the time of her life.

"Your royal highness, it is approaching ten o'clock. I am under orders from his highness the prince to make sure you are kept safe, and the streets are getting most rowdy, most noisy. I'm afraid I must insist."

She acted surprised, rather obviously. Her accent had got more fluid as the evening had gone on. "Oh, Eichen, is it really? Well, gentlemen, I must bid you good night, and fair winds to your ships. You must, must dine with me when you return from New York, Mr. Outridge. I shall await it anxiously."

The man with the wispy moustache coloured, and glanced down at her tightly bound dress, and gave her an old-fashioned bow as she permitted him to kiss her hand. He wore no wedding ring, Macleane noted.

He all but dragged her out of the dining hall, and once they reached a dark corner, pulled her close.

"What kind of a game--" he started, indignant, but she spoke right over him.

"You seriously undermined my authority by pulling me out like that! I couldn't even say good night to the chairman like we planned!"

"Well, excuse me, princess!" he hissed back. "That fellow with aspirations to one day learn how to grow a moustache had more than trade secrets in his eyes! Were you having too much fun to notice that?"

Her eyes struck lightning in the half-light. "He had trade secrets on his lips, a moment before you intervened. Or did you know that he brings in the best rum in all of Philadelphia? And is looking for a partner?"

"I bet he is--"

"How can you be so--"

They heard a muted _thump_ , and the body of Austice, right hand of Elsegood, slumped down on the floor, still holding a club.

"Knew he'd sneaked back," Plunkett said, and adjusted the hat that didn't suit him. "You two about done?"

"You knocked him out?" Macleane gestured wildly. "You bloody wanker, why did you do that? He can identify us!"

Plunkett opened his coat, and showed the scrolled documents he'd tucked into the pockets. "And who's going to believe him after tonight? Come on, you two! Before someone finds us with him!"

"This was not the way we planned it," Rebecca pointed out, taking off her hat and gathering the skirts of her dress into her hands in order to run faster. "But I could get used to this pace." Her eyes were shining with excitement, and she was no longer a princess, but not quite the niece of the Lord Chief Justice, either.

 _Everything over here is new_ , Macleane reminded himself.

"Toss the coat," he told Plunkett, taking off his own wig, "it draws too much attention. I told you it was too green for the season."

Plunkett laughed, slightly out of breath. "What? Fuck off. I like this coat."

"You like the pretty peacock coat, do you? Well, how about that. We'll make a ponce of you after all."

"What's not to like, it's warm and it hasn't got any lice," Plunkett said, but Macleane laughed, and Rebecca smiled at them both, shaking her head.

The game was new, and it would take a few more rounds for them to perfect their playing strategy, but they were on the board now, the three of them, no one's pawns in the land of the free.

**Author's Note:**

> I've played fast and loose with historical facts and timeline here, I hope you'll forgive me - it's no more than the makers of the film did, I assure you!
> 
> "Vanadia" means vanadium pentoxide. I would imagine that Plunkett, being a learnt man, suggested the name, and Lady Rebecca found it amusing.


End file.
